Fall
by written-at-summer-sunset
Summary: With simple intentions, they suffer different sacrifices for the same fate because of the same kind of false hope they knew would never last. But they still took the fall . / Mentions of Millie, Jace, and Kick. Rated T for darker themes. Three-shot.
1. Julie

**Welcome to my brand new AWESOME fanfic!**

**I'm kidding; this has to be one of my biggest challenges yet. I've only tried writing true angst, like, two or three times before and they came out **_**terribly**_**. This is my apology beforehand at how awful it will seem.**

**On an even sadder note, I found out recently that one **_**amazing **_**author is officially quitting writing in 2013 (too short a time period for me). So, this is dedicated to...**_**fallen**__**empires**_**! I know that it's too early to say good-bye, but she really loves angst and this might be one of the only angst I write this recently. But, I guess it just depends on whether she even reads it or not.**

**So, I guess, continue on...**

* * *

She can't quite explain it, but she's always had a peculiar love for storms.

As odd as it is, the loud, rumbling thunder, gigantic gray clouds, and angry force of the pelting raindrops just makes her feel much more content...a more peaceful state of mind.

Julie contemplates her hobby of watching storms as she looks out her window—at the big oak tree with spiraling limbs that shake in furious wind outside her window. The darkened bark has bits and pieces fly away, the harsh weather breaking into the tree's skin.

Julie suddenly laughs dryly, a cold humorless sound that rings throughout her bedroom, bouncing off the walls to scream back at her—something that helps fills the angry silence. Even with the hum of her computer joining in, the screams fade away; it stays in her mind, imprinting it deeply—another mantra partnering up with the last one.

With jerky movements, she struggles to open her window, immediately having to take a couple steps back. A bitter wind sweeps in from her window, jabbing at her skin like cold needles. Julie paces back and forth, goose bumps rising on her flesh—the sharp breeze slicing through her thin pajamas. Easily turning numb, her skin pales, moonlight turning her an unnatural sliver. Her bed taunts her mockingly, offering warmth that she'll never take.

With angered kicks, her slippers fly off, Julie's bare feet sinking into her carpet. She's up from her desk chair (conveniently parked in front of her window, front row seat to the raging thunder and crackling lightning). The light brunette starts a trail from her bed to her firmly locked door, never changing or staggering.

A shaky hand runs through her sloppy locks as Julie plays the fight over and over; it doesn't even qualify as a fight—reason battling denial if anything. The heartless, bitter words have to be the worst part of it all, every sentence so sharp and lacking of emotion; her hysterical defenses useless and weak against them.

The storm rages on harder now, like being fueled by her tangle of emotions.

Her hands continue to pull at her long locks, Julie flinching at memory after memory.

"_It's _over_." _So easy and emotionless—coming from the guy she gave two years of her life to.

"_Why? Why throw away we put so much time into building up? Together?" _Her cries sounding distraught and hysterical even to her own ears.

Julie stops in mid-step, cowling as she thinks about how cruel and harsh everything appears now.

Has it always been like this?

Was the world around always this harsh and cruel unbeknownst to her all this time?

Julie doesn't like that—she doesn't like that one bit.

A new sudden swell of odd determination fills her chest as Julie stomps out of her room, the brunette stalking in beat to her melody of the storm. The bathroom door slams against the walls as she rips it open; the pristine white tiles feel like a sheet of ice under Julie's feet.

She stops in front of the mirror.

Julie faces her reflection with a fierce scowl, eyes hard and careless as she burns holes into the image before her. She takes in her snarled hair from her hand's constants pulling on it; the major wrinkles dominating her pajamas; how pale and alien her skin looks in the moonlight coming in from the window.

With her hand gripping onto the sink tightly, Julie throws her head back and lets out a howling laugh. It carries, bouncing off the bathroom and slamming right back at her. It only takes a few, depression filled moments for her voice to become hoarse, throat raw with her laughter fading into hysterical dry heaves.

She's never been one for rejection.

And this kind has to be the worst.

For a while Julie just sits there, having lowered herself to the tile floor, clutching her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth in a hurtful haze of swirling thoughts. They burn in her mind as hot as fire—as dangerous as raging flames.

The brunette suddenly feels too hot—panting and looking around frantically for something to ease this bright burn that spreads, taking over her limbs and knocking around in her stomach.

Fumbling, Julie trips her way to the tub, her shaky hand gripping the knob tightly and twisting robotically. Something in her tweaks itself enough to let her calm at the sight of the rushing water, her eyes taking in the view of the tub filling quickly.

She turns to the mirror again.

Julie's never been one to worry about her body—academics didn't care what her body looked like, just what her mind can do. So she never had to worry like all the other hormonal teenage girls of her school. But something about this night (_this night_, the brunette repeats in her head, and can't help but grin sadistically) is different and she slips her clothes of slowly; taking in every curve and patch of skin and flesh, her eyes drinking in the occasional freckle and the bump of her knuckles and bony knees.

Maybe this was the reason Milton saw to guide his decision.

And she couldn't fix it now.

There was no time to heal.

Julie can't find it in herself to jump with the cold leak of the spreading water puddle reaches her feet, crawling under heals and seeping into her skin.

Instead she grins wider at her reflection one last time before taking camp in the tub over flowing.

Julie doesn't bother turning off the faucet—the cold water pricking at her limbs like frozen knives. There was a certain satisfaction that she loves about the feeling that makes her crave for more.

And that's what she'll get.

Slowly, Julie dunks her body even more into the water, her hair spreading around her head, face completely submerged. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling, taking it in through the watery haze.

The brunette smiles an open smile, the icy liquid rushing down her throat, filling her until Julie waits to burst.

_Just like a balloon_, Julie thinks as she's winded, no longer attempting to breathe—because everyone has to pop at some point.

Her last thought is still on the pop people go through; her glassy eyes still watching the ceiling in that same watery haze; her body still sinking in grief and the icy lake.

Julie never once thought about help—her parents and their ways to take everything.

Every expectation she worked so hard to reach.

Where she was going (the world of nothing but her way) there is no broken minds and hearts—no pains that she waits on end to endure.

* * *

**Whoa. That was just sad and depressing, even to me.**

**But that's kind of how I've been seeing everything for a while. I've been wondering how people in this kind of pain would react to such pressures and try to write how Julie would react in this kind of pain.**

**Please review, the next chapter of this three-shot should be out soon.**


	2. Grace

**Hey guys. Second chapter. I think you guys will like this chapter way more than the Millie chapter, and I mean that in the best way possible…if that makes sense.**

**Yes, this is the Jace chapter I think people had been waiting for. So now you know the order: Millie, Jace, and Kick.**

**Enjoy, lovelies!**

* * *

Her hard eyes, sharp and alert, glower at the tiny printed words in front of her. The small sentences swarm and swim—she can't get herself to blink.

With an insensitive sigh, her father awkwardly squeezes her shoulder, his hand stiffly hovering as if he wants to do more, instead choosing to escape to his study; he's never been good with sympathy. His daughter knew that and simply let him go.

Grace listens, hearing the door slam against its frame with an echoing, firm shut. Her hands tighten into shaking fists with her nails digging into her palms—she can't believe he actually did it.

Drawing a sharp intake of breath and choking it out, the brunette does it again and again—the air suddenly too thick in her lungs to breathe in and exhale. Despite this, Grace repeats her breathing pattern over and over, until her shaky frame settles to a nervous kind of vibrating that seeps into her veins. She's feeling way too jumpy and anxious to calm herself.

_God, the news will be all over this tomorrow._

Grace nearly screams, biting it back and swallowing whole and unwillingly as she switches her glare to the blank TV in the living room. The words are still there; blocking her vision of anything else (she's looked enough to recite the horrid new by heart).

_Sixteen year-old male found dead in downtown Seaford…_

_Identified as Jerold Carlitos Martinez by mother…_

_Police say suicide, still under investigation—_

The grieving brunette at the three loud bangs biting down painfully on her tongue. Swearing, Grace gets up, still muttering incoherent curses when she opens the door.

A part of her wants to be shocked at the sight of a burly officer standing at her door, baggie in hand. But nothing clicks—no surprise or awe, not even guilt_. _All that's there is just a raw type of ache eating through her heart and joining the vibration in her veins.

She feels icy and numb.

But likes it.

The officer clears his throat and holding the bag up for emphasis (like she doesn't already hate its contents enough). "Are you Grace West?"

The brunette still stands there, arms at her side, blinking at the bag.

He goes through the whole point-at-badge thing like Grace can't tell what he his. She briefly glances at his name on display; it's a funny little black blur to her eyes.

"What of it?" It's not a snap or bitter like expected. Grace blinks, averting her eyes to the doorknob instead of at the officer. She wonders briefly if he can excuse her behavior for the case at hand. She wonders again if he even cares or is just doing this because he has to.

Grace really doesn't care.

She just doesn't want him here, bugging her when she knows exactly what's going on.

Nevertheless, Grace opens the door wider, stepping aside for the officer to come in. While he does, he rambles and rambles on end. She doesn't focus on his words, choosing the watch the raindrops slide off his raincoat.

"Is there an adult I can speak privately too?" he asks gently, Grace shrugging in a careless manner as she leads him away to her father's study. The door shut behind him with a slam, mutters of talk instantly when the door locks also.

She doesn't have to listen in when she already knows, so why bother?

With a sigh, Grace slumps forward, dragging herself up the stairs and to her bed. Like the officer's coat, her window is dripping with drops sliding down the cool glass. In all the grayness of the day, Grace hadn't even noticed it was raining in a fit of rage.

Her face sinks into her pillow—sweet darkness pairing with drumming thunder outside. Irony of her blank emotions and sadistic weather isn't lost on Grace completely.

_Maybe I could do the same…_

…_true love is forever isn't it?_

Grace growls in her throat, the sound mangled as it gets trapped in the softness of her pillow. Sitting, she surveys her room critically—no weapons to follow her plan. With a curve of her lips, Grace stands, shoving on some High Tops and a worn jacket with several holes, she slips out of her room silently.

The hallway's carpet hushes her footfalls until she makes it to hall's window. Grace cringes at the creak the window makes as she pushes it open with all the strength her arms can allow her to use.

It opens enough for Grace to wriggle out, the wind and cold biting through the holes of her jacket and whistling through the soaked strands of her hair. Blindly, Grace jerks her hands around, mentally thanking her father for leaving his ladder near the roof from the last storm that had hit Seaford worse than this. Stiffly, she starts climbing—slipping more so than really climbing. Harsh swirls of rain whack her wet chocolate strands in her eyes, some sticking to her knuckles that shake in front her.

With a groan, Grace rolls of the ladder. She lays there on the roof for a moment, panting heavily. Something forcefully glues her to the roof when she attempts to rise—whether its gravity or the howling wind is unbeknownst to her.

_Wait for me—I'm only seconds away, Jer. _

The brunette peels herself up (and peeling away her clothes with a cringe). Shuffling, she hesitates just shy of the roof's edge. Grace takes half a step towards the edge, daring herself to look down. When she does she finds it easier than she had thought it would be.

All Grace sees in a wet, drippy darkness that spirals out below her like a wet painting of sorts. Her insides calm—a peaceful kind of feeling mixing in with the gray, smudging it with a definite line of white that makes her smile in the slightest.

With a single exhale of a sharp breath, Grace closes her eyes and spreads her arms, tipping forward and letting the wind carry her body away.

And then she's falling.

Grace laughs at the sensation of the harsh rain and weather biting at her arms and hands, finding everything very hilarious and cruel in a way that's very addicting.

She hits the ground with a slam.

Her head collides with the thick blades of grass, her neck twisting and knotting as well as her limbs does. Grace still keeps her eyes shut; the pain of every bone crushing and cracking nonexistent.

Instead, she feels…light.

A stream of blood chokes up her throat, crawls out her mouth and staining the wet grass and as her sight tints black, Grace smiles up at the sky as black and dark as Jerry's old leather jacket.

_We finally made it_.

* * *

**Different from what I had planned, but for these, I'm kinda just winging it for now.**

**Jace angst is always the hardest angst for me to write. I think it's because of how naturally hilarious and perfect they are together, that it is difficult to picture them so broken and imperfect…much like this.**

**But please review and tell me if you liked it anyway. The next (and final) chapter is Kick.**


	3. Kim

'**Sup my people? Final chapter and I'm feeling excited at how quickly this three-shot came together. This has to be one of my fastest multi-chapter stories.**

**I loved all the lovely reviews you guys gave. I swear, the people on the bus were calling me a freak as I smiled down at my phone because of them! But anyway, this is the longest I think and Kim is a bit more…misunderstood in this one than Julie and Grace were in the last one.**

* * *

Looking at the sidewalk; freezing droplets splash against her skin, soaking through her tank top and soaking her shoes. Her blonde locks glue themselves to her skin—attacking the back of her neck and face in vain to block her eyes. But still, she trudges along—away from everything, everything that she thought had been right.

Kim doesn't mind the cold, the howling wind fighting against her attempts to walk correctly. The blank night sky glares down at her as she stops at the entrance of the park; her mind blanks as she stays in that spot. Kim looks around plainly, her amber eyes hard and empty as they drink in the shadows dancing across the wrecked flower pathways. Long tree limbs look as bent and eerie as a witch's finger as they shake violently in the storm.

The hard mental tip feels cold against her pale hand. She runs a finger along the edge of its blade; the weapon is abnormally heavy in her pocket. (Like another weight, Kim relates bitterly.) But she doesn't care—Kim shouldn't have cared all along. That was the best way to battle the worlds and its evil demons: Don't care enough to hurt but smile enough to keep them off your back.

This was the night, the final night. As she takes robotic steps to the oldest oak tree, the blonde pushes away her better judgment—it never got her anywhere good in the first place, she crows—all the feelings that want to erupt inside of her. Kim focuses on this angry, sprinting to the nearest tree and starting to pull.

Straight A student; hard working; second degree black belt; honor roll—meaningless traits of a person she's become: All to please the people in her life.

"Monsters," Kim hisses as her hand pulls her off the ground.

That's all they are: her parents (monsters), friends (beasts), sensei (beast), boyfriend of six months (monstrous beasts) —all thriving to see her pathetic downfall.

But Kim isn't going to them that satisfaction. "Cruel, uncaring, disgusted!" Her accusations lost in the howling wind.

Her hand nearly slips and for a split second she wishes it did. Then Kim shakes the thought out of her head; everything needs to be precise if she wants to do this the right way. And up she continues, worn sneakers digging into the wet bark as she doesn't quit climbing until she's at the very top.

A twisted kind of thrill spreads deep to her core, camping under her skin. Kim shivers at the sick type of pleasure and craves for more. With a shuddering breath escaping from her blue lips, she admires the blade distantly. The metal is cool and dangerous in her hands and Kim watches as she starts to write.

She vaguely remembers obsessing with how _one hundred percent perfect _her handwriting had to be. Kim watches in glee as choppy letters start to take form on the inside of her left forearm, the blade sinking in and getting excitingly close to the important blue veins popping out of her arm.

_J A C K_

Using her nonexistent art skills, the blonde's careful to sketch a deep bleeding heart for punctuation. Kim holds her arm out further, the blood making thick crimson streams that collide with the rain. Licking her lips, she pulls the arm to her again; the stained blade cutting into her skin.

_H E L L_

Now two words glare up at her. Numb, excitement and determination fall from her wounds with each drop of crimson Kim watches fall. It's storming louder now, the bloody trails leaking and racing and spiraling into each other as they slip down to the inside of her elbow.

Kim gets a bitter, cold pit forming in the bottom of her stomach as she considers her mother's stern warnings.

_Swearing people and using God's name in vain gets a person nowhere in life._

She smiles a bit wider, more cruel and dangerous as she drifts the name over her skin. "Where to start next," Kim says under her breath. "So many choices—so little time."

Lightning crackles behind her; thunder claps above her tree. Something about the rain seems colder, the droplets splashing from the shaking leaves and stinging into her cuts.

Kim laughs, it being carried away with the wind and thrown into the storm. _Madness and otherwise_, Kim muses with an unnatural cheerfulness.

Another one of her pushed away memories resurfaces in vain to be noticed. Kim sees a flash of brown eyes and that same charming smile she had fallen for at the beginning of the year. It dissolves away in her mental wave of black.

Completely soaked, head to toe—laughing manically with a blade in the vice grip of her shaking pale fist. Kim once read a story similar to hers, and happy she did to. If she didn't, then maybe she would have never know that this kind of suffocating rage and depression—mingling—intoxicating—never did existed among reality.

"Lovely place, but I wouldn't live there." Kim hasn't lived there in such a long while. Realness and the definition of normal; gone from her since forever.

Jack.

Grace.

Jerry.

Eddie.

Milton.

Julie.

Rudy.

Kelsey.

Kim let all the names flicker to-and-fro in her mind as she slices as a type of tally. All it takes is the twitch of her jaw and then she crying. Much more different than her original plan, Kim muses sarcastically. But she's not original either; an exact copy of her older, college living sister.

And she's sick and tired of it.

Of Jack too. Always number one. Always in the spotlight; never there for _her_.

_Ever_.

Something about this weakness but strength camping in her chest, tightening there in a strong knot, makes her feel like an in-between. Kim's in-between the weak and strong; the sad and happy; the perfect and none.

Her veins are slicing and her arm is nearly gone. Kim watches as the blood covers her skin like an ugly blanket.

Then she starts on the other.

Family—_slice_—dojo—_slice_. And it keeps going like that. Kim just howls and screeches, finally just tossing the knife to the ground. Her nails scratch and scratch and scratch at her cuts until she's seeing black spot and feeling woozy.

Kim sighs in content. The darkness is invading her body, her vision tinting an outrageous red around its blurry edges. Blood stains her drenched denim jeans, under her fingernails and rushing down her knuckles.

Her body falls.

The blonde isn't present, slipping under, sense bleak and bleary and gone, as she slaps the slick ground. Her limbs—so bloody and cold that it seems too harsh for such a person—are spread around her broken body awkwardly.

_Sweet blackness, I've been waiting._

* * *

**Same pain. Same sickness in mind. Same death. And on the same night of the same, raging storm. That's just sad.**

**But I loved writing this.**

**And news, story wise: I'm currently planning a new Kickin' It story, In The Garden. It's based off a book I literally just finished reading and I think a lot of people will find it more different from other stories on here.**

**On a happier note, HTRJ clip? The best thing I've ever seen in my **_**entire life**_**! As girly as this sounds, waiting 'till Monday will kill me. Anyone else feel the same way I do?**


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